


destabilizing influences

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s two days before Ulf’s thirty-sixth birthday when his best friend has a baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	destabilizing influences

**Author's Note:**

> While each of my series is more or less intertwined, this is probably the first series that begs for the reading of another. It isn't necessary to read _you could make a life_ before this, but it would be very, very helpful.

It’s two days before Ulf’s thirty-sixth birthday when his best friend has a baby. He’s in Sweden, riding the summer out after a disappointing first round exit that led to a torn tendon in his ankle, the lingering exhaustion from pushing an ageing body like a teenager. A clean sweep of management too, the news breaking after he was settled in Stockholm, close enough to his family for visiting, far enough away that he wouldn’t chafe.

He gets the call at three in the morning, and is prepared to ignore it until he sees Marc’s name. He answers with a pointed groan, however.

“Were you sleeping?” Marc asks.

“I know you know how time zones work, Marc,” Ulf mumbles.

“Are you alone?” Marc asks.

He is, for once. “Lucky for you,” he says. “Baby born?”

“Charlotte,” Marc says. “Dan is in with her now.”

“Healthy?” Ulf asks. Marc hums. “Okay, I’m going back to sleep.”

Marc tsks at him. He’ll be a good father, he already has the disappointed noise down.

“I’ll call you at a civilized time,” Ulf says. “Stop procrastinating on holding your baby.”

“What if I drop her?” Marc asks.

“Riley kills you,” Ulf says through a yawn. “Go see your baby.”

“Fine,” Marc snaps. “You are a terrible friend. I rescind the title of godfather.”

“Not enabling you,” Ulf says. “Sleeping now.” 

He hangs up before Marc can answer, but it’s a while before he falls back asleep. 

*

In the following weeks the calls are sporadic, not as often as Ulf is used to, and Marc calls at hours that make sense for Ulf but are positively uncivilized in Montreal. He skypes Ulf on a sunny Saturday afternoon he really should be out enjoying, and he looks haggard.

“You look like a vampire,” Ulf says. “But worse.”

Marc gives him the finger. “She won’t _sleep_ ,” he says tiredly.

It’s quiet in the house behind him, Ulf getting a snatch of wall behind Marc’s exhausted face, nothing else. He hasn’t been to the house Marc and Dan bought together, goes out with Marc when he is in Montreal, and Marc never pushes, but Ulf suspects being bestowed godfather status changes that. He isn’t even a Catholic. Marc and Dan aren’t even Catholics, really. 

“Did you actually call me instead of getting sleep?” he asks, finally.

“Dan is driving her around the block,” Marc mumbles. “I started crying and I believe it scared him.”

“Did you do it on purpose?” Ulf asks, because it’s not entirely out of the realm of something Marc would do.

Marc glares at him. “I am tired,” he grits out.

“Go sleep,” Ulf says. “You know Riley isn’t going to wake you up.”

Marc rubs his eye tiredly, like a child himself. “Will you come see her?” he asks, finally. “Soon?”

“When I get back from Sweden,” Ulf agrees, and Marc exhales, slow. 

*

Ulf makes it a full week back in New York before he finally decides picking up the phone and facing the music is better than facing Marc’s wrath. 

“Ulf,” Marc says, when Ulf picks up, and Ulf had no idea it was possible to say his name with so much unimpressed disappointment.

“Marc,” Ulf says. “How are you?”

“I am tired,” Marc says. “I am cranky. I am wondering where my friend is.”

Ulf’s been trying to think of some way to avoid the Riley Lapointe household without using, “I may still be a little in love with your husband, and I really don’t want to be in a position to confirm that.” It’s not like Marc would be angry about it, or not understand--Marc has trouble understanding the fact that the entire world _isn’t_ in love with his husband

Ulf doesn’t know if Dan knows, and he hasn’t asked--Marc keeps his secrets, always has, but Dan had as much right to know as Marc, more, even, and Marc had every right to tell him. Even so, the thought is mortifying, the two of them discussing his misguided little crush while curled up in bed, sharing breath. They’d be nice about it--Marc loves him and Dan’s nice about everything, practically, but that only makes it worse. It’s been years, and Ulf’s barely seen Dan, just back slaps and ‘how are yous’ when he catches him at the start or end of Ulf’s Montreal visits, and anything more prolonged seems like it’s asking for trouble.

Marc hasn’t asked, because Marc’s smart, and he’s smart about Ulf, enough that Ulf probably doesn’t need to explain because Marc already knows. Even so, he’s flush with baby-fever, and Ulf’s put off the baby visit too long. Being in Sweden is an excuse; being in New York with two free weeks is going to earn him Lapointe ire, and that’s unpleasant for everyone.

“Babies freak me out,” Ulf finally says, which is true enough, and an opinion Marc had more or less shared until at least the age of thirty.

“Suck it up,” Marc says in perfect, unaccented English, probably mimicking Dan making him change Charlotte’s diapers or get up at three in the morning for the feeding. He sounds enough like Dan that Ulf snorts, reluctant.

“Four days,” Marc says. “That is all.”

“Two,” Ulf bargains.

“Three,” Marc says, and there’s a smirk in his voice like that’s what he’d been wanting in the first place.

“Fine,” Ulf says, defeated. “I’ll book a ticket.”

“I already have,” Marc says.

He forwards it to Ulf, and sure enough, it’s for three days. Sneaky French fucker. 

*

He doesn’t really think about what it means that both of the people’s he’s even gotten close to falling in love with are married, settled, have kids tucked under their arms. With Dan, it’s irrelevant, since he was married when they started their arrangement with Marc’s enthusiastic consent, and when Ulf met him he was practically married, even at nineteen years old. Dan and Marc had been it for each other from the start.

Carson’s been married for almost ten years now. Ulf remembers the punch in the gut it was, the first time he’d seen the ring on his finger, married to some girl Ulf had never met, at a wedding he hadn’t been invited to. It hadn’t stopped Carson from asking him to grab a drink after Dallas had ground the Panthers into paste. It hadn’t stopped Ulf from taking him home that night, blowing him on the still-made bed, because he wasn’t Carson’s keeper, never had been, and Carson being married wasn’t any of his concern. He avoided fucking married people, as a rule, just to lessen any potential complications, but he’d missed Carson for years, metallic and acrid on his tongue, and any complications felt worth it at the time.

He avoids _feelings_ as a rule, and Carson’s a big indication why, something mean and bitter in him when he thought about him, when he took him home, a thread running through him, _is your wife any good at this, she isn’t as good as I am_ , and he didn’t like who he was that night. Kept himself well away from the potential of anything until he got too close to Dan, in the end, and that almost soured the best friendship he’d ever had, Ulf resentful of Marc, of the way Dan felt about Marc, so unsubtle and beaming that it was impossible to miss, a fucking fairy tale romance for the ages. 

He likes to think he’s learned from it. He’s certainly learned what to avoid.

*

Ulf takes the flight Marc booked, packing light enough that he doesn’t have to check his baggage, with enough changes of clothing that the inevitable mess babies make won’t lead to him being forced into a Habs shirt, because he knows Marc too well. 

It’s hot in Montreal, thick with island humidity, stifling, though he doesn’t suffer it long, goes from Dorval to cab to the door of Marc’s house, beautiful and big. Not ostentatious, but it suits him better than the apartments in Old Montreal he’d inhabited before Dan finally followed him.

He’s reluctant make his presence known, afraid of waking the baby, but lurking at the doorway won’t do him much good, and the heat’s oppressive, so he presses the bell, sweats a little more through his shirt, until someone opens the door.

For a moment he's almost unrecognizable, but then he resolves into himself, Marc, tired, thinner than he should be, especially during the off-season, but Marc all the same, and when he hugs Ulf he fits under his chin the exact way he always had.

There's no shrill cry despite Ulf's ring on the doorbell, an empty house, almost echoing with silence, and when Ulf comes in, Marc explains like Ulf's asked.

"Dan is out with Charlotte. His parents have come. They have been to Montreal twice since Charlotte was born," he says, eyeing Ulf.

"Stockholm's further than Toronto," Ulf says blandly. Could kiss Marc for arranging it this way, because he probably did, tiny little machinations that no one would notice, just so Ulf didn't walk into a house that felt hostile for no good reason. "Want to give me a tour?"

It's a beautiful house. Old enough to have personality, but not creaking with it, and it's obviously lived in, a small mess greeting him in every room, baby blankets and pacifiers and toys she can't be old enough for yet, culminating in an explosion of color in her room. Not pink, of course. Marc wouldn't have abided it. 

"The Habs have been sending packages," Marc says, and that's clear enough from the burst of red and blue, tiny CH everywhere, from jumpers to a mobile, and then of course there's a matching amount of Senators gear visible, because Dan hasn't been retired long enough for that thread to tie. 

"I don't know if they make Larsson jerseys in baby size," Ulf says.

"Please," Marc says. "Buy her something pink. At this rate she will become a hockey player." He sounds like he can't think of anything worse.

Ulf snorts. "At this rate she's going to be a _goalie_ ," he adds, and smothers Marc's look of horror with his shoulder when he pulls him in. "You're a dad," he says. "It's freaking me out."

"It is freaking _you_ out?" Marc says, muffled into the fabric of his shirt. 

A creaking door and low voices signals the return of the Rileys, and Ulf's chest tightens, but only for a moment. Marc pulls back with the same look on his face that he always gets when Dan's back from an absence, whether it's weeks or an hour: fundamental, bone deep relief. When they get downstairs it's Charlotte he reaches for first, though, a bundle so tiny she scarcely seems human, just a blanket and a hat, even though it's hot out, a sleeping face wizened like an old man.

“Larsson,” Dan says warmly, after carefully handing Charlotte over to Marc. There's no sign of any awkwardness, any _knowing_ , and Dan doesn't have much of a poker face, never has. He looks as exhausted as Marc, and there's a stain down the front of his shirt, spit up, probably. No one looks good with baby vomit on them, and it's comforting that Dan isn't the exception.

"Riley," Ulf says, and clasps Dan's hand when he reaches out.

"How long have you boys known each other?" Mrs. Riley says. "And you still use last names?"

"Mrs. Riley," Ulf says, reaches a hand out when he's let go of Dan's.

"No," she says, and pulls him into a hug instead of the handshake. "None of that. Anne and Stephen, please, Ulf."

"Anne," Ulf agrees, and then shakes Stephen's hand. He's grateful to them, the presence of them, buffering the space when they make their way into the living room, Anne asking him questions about the off-season, Stephen enquiring about the Rangers' future, while Marc and Dan settle on the couch, Charlotte tucked in Marc's arms and Marc tucked against Dan, forever a unit, simply one with more components. 

Ulf's known them for close to twenty years now, and that's never going to change, not with the addition of Charlotte, not with Dan retired. Not with Ulf. He knew that from the start--hadn't wanted anything else. Still doesn't. Regardless, he's itching to get back to New York, to settle himself back into his apartment, into his routine, into the season, and hope Marc still manages to carve out the time for him he always has, though that is far from guaranteed for the first time since they met. It unsettles him. 

*

Before he leaves, he changes multiple diapers, studiously following Marc's slightly inept directions, and then Dan's exasperated, amused, much more helpful directions. Gets spat up on multiple times. Holds an impromptu staring contest with a far too serious baby. Finds out that there are indeed baby Larsson jerseys, or at least the possibility of them, and gets one custom ordered, because if the kid's going to have a closet full of jerseys, his is going to be one of them. Gets a Rangers onesie in pink just to piss Marc off. Shares a house with Dan Riley for three days, and to his fundamental, bone deep relief, doesn't feel much of anything about it. 

When he's waiting for a cab on their front porch, Marc comes out, sits beside him on the stairs, knee nudging Ulf's.

"I am glad you came," Marc says.

"I am too," Ulf says, and he isn't lying.

*

Even so, he’s happy to return to New York, and when it comes, he greets training camp with a fundamental sense of relief. At his age, there's always the encroaching concern that each season will be his last--it's possible at any age, of course, and Ulf's faced enough seasons and chunks of seasons sent down in the last few years to know the show isn't guaranteed for anyone over thirty unless they've got a C on their chest or play like David Chapman. Or Marc Lapointe, for that matter. 

But he's healthy, and he's in good shape, and he's in a room he's comfortable with, a room who's comfortable with him, and that won't supersede any decision new staff will make if they decide he doesn't fit, but it settles him enough that he isn't dreading the change. Firing Deslauriers was picking a whipping boy, as simple as that, after a lackluster series from all participants, but they've settled into a groove of good but not more, have made it to the Eastern Conference Final but no further, not in decades, and even a nose-dive might be better than constant mediocrity. 

There are enough uncommon faces in the room--farm team, rookies, all given a chance to prove themselves--that the entrance of the coaching staff isn't as jarring as it would be once the season had started. Still, Ulf's gotten used to New York, gotten used to Deslauriers and his men, and it's odd to see a face familiar only from the opposing bench now stand in charge. Travis had been canned from the Penguins at the end of the season, and the break had been ugly enough, or sobering enough, that he's shucked his usual cohorts, has a brand new staff with him. 

Ulf recognizes Adam Rousseau with a start. He'd played against him recently enough that it feels strange to see him on the other side of things, though it's been at least a few years since he bowed out. He'd been good, great, a thorn in the Rangers' side, actually, and enough to get open season when he was a free agent, but he sunk to mediocre, then worse, retired by his early thirties with no excuse. Sources are split on whether he turned his nose up at the farm team or was tight mouthed about an injury, but Ulf suspects it was the latter, because he doesn't really seem the type to consider himself too good for the A. 

It’s not as if Ulf knows him, really, other than from across the ice, the occasional handshake line. They’ve never played together, bumped up against one another in the traditional dance of divisional rivalry, but when Rousseau was at his best, he was better than Ulf by a mile, never forced into the events for third, fourth line players, and when he went out with a fizzle, no one wanted to see him, Pittsburgh seething at the price tag he’d fetched to secure him from free-agency at his height, the devaluation he seemed to provide every year. 

It’d gotten ugly, the rhetoric, or Ulf wouldn’t have noticed, Rousseau half--Ulf doesn’t remember, some Native-Canadian tribe. Marc would know. He’d retired young enough that it caught Ulf’s attention, but by the end of it, not much else was worth attention at all. Ulf wouldn’t have even remembered him had he not colored so beautifully every time they were on the ice.

Ulf has no compunction using any weapon he can to throw off an opponent, and the NHL's small enough, and gossipy enough, that it's no secret what he's gotten up to with some of the guys. Carson would have died before talking about it, but he suspects it was an open secret with the entire Dallas locker room before he was traded, and Filip followed him around the Panthers' room like an infatuated duckling when Ulf again made the mistake (not to be repeated) of sleeping with an impressionable rookie. Maybe he'd had an excuse when he was an impressionable rookie himself, but it never turned out well for anyone. 

But Ulf's never hesitated in flirting with guys on the ice, less genuine flirtation and more a frequently effective way of destabilizing opponents. The effects vary--he's gotten into a fight or two with raging homophobes who act like he's soiled their virtue and their very sexuality, had enough guys flirt back, genuine or simply good sports smart enough to know what Ulf was trying to accomplish, and hoping to beat him at his own game. The genuine flirtation had moved off the ice a time or two, but Ulf's getting too old and wary for hockey players--they're fucking trouble every time. 

The most common reaction was flustered, which was exactly the reaction he was trying for. Players who'd blink in the face of it. Occasionally, not often, he'd earn a blush. Rousseau flushed every time, go so dark it was obviously embarrassment and not exertion. It'd been effective, and Ulf had thought it was adorable, so he'd made a point of it when they'd played the Penguins, and he'd never failed at getting the blush to appear. He didn't know if Rousseau was prudish or closeted, and he didn't care, because it worked. He was an easy mark, and Ulf looked for him every time. 

When Rousseau looks around the room while Travis is awkwardly getting through a 'Please accept that I’m your coach now,' speech, he catches Ulf's eye. Ulf winks, and Rousseau colors, more obvious than ever when he's off the ice, and it's all Ulf can do not to smile.


End file.
